Long Live the King General Store
by Ginger-Snapp
Summary: A modern-day Hamlet; school project.   King Hamlet was the proud owner of the King General Store until Claudius,the greedy fast-food owner, sabotaged the store and sent Hamlet to an early grave. This is the story of Hamlet C. King IV's revenge.


Long Live the King General Store

Standing on the street corner, Hamlet could hardly believe it. The shadow out the old lettering could still be seen behind the new sign because the years had bleached the brick around it. _King's General Store. _The Ends of the K stuck out above the gaudy protrusion that grew on the front of his childhood home and the promise of his future. What had once been a proud, family owned store that served the community and was loved by all was now a poorly managed grease trap selling heart attacks on a bun. _Or,_ Hamlet thought dryly, _with the all new 99 cent Caesar wrap, to celebrate the new store front. _The large poster advocating this change was in the window, blocking his view to the inside. What Hamlet C. King expected to see was greatly in doubt. Certainly did was not looking for the old ice coolers, or the out-dated cash register. Neither did he expect to see his father in there, greeting customers and giving discounts when he really couldn't afford too. Perhaps he just wanted to see the shadow of it all; the memories that laid underneath the same way those letters lay underneath the new sign.

Hearing about this place had been hard. Hearing about it over his father's casket had been harder. Away at college, attempting to get the scholarship for his basketball skills, a single phone call had caused him to abandon a meeting that would determine his future forever. If he had stopped to listen to the details and considered what would have brought on a heart attack in a fifty-two year old man who took decent care of himself, maybe the shock wouldn't have been so terrible, or so public. Worst of all it had been Gertrude, in her usual blood red lipstick and piled curls, who had informed him. "Dear, why don't we sit down? And open casket is so vulgar; I don't know why we even chose that!" She smiled at him in a way that Hamlet couldn't have fathomed possible while still in the room with a man's corpse she worked with for twenty years. He allowed her long fingernails to encircle his wrist like a claw and drag him away from his father's deathly white face. "It is so terrible, but I should have seen it coming, what with the shock and all. Mr. King insisted that he had been sabotaged, and when he lost the store, well – we both know that grungy old place was everything to him. I always said he should have fixed up that –"

Hamlet cut her off. He had allowed her to go on that long because of mental shock and a poorly timed sip of spirits. "What? Lost the store? What do you mean he lost the store?" He stood, sloshing his tumbler in his haste to act. What he was to do, Hamlet really had no idea, but every atom in his body screamed action. Yelling wildly at Gertrude in the middle of the funeral would have to do.

"I didn't tell you? I could have sworn I did. Maybe if you would learn to check your email every once in a while I might be able to contact you, sweet." She used the voice she reserved just for him – childlike, with hints of distain and mockery mixed in. Somehow, she still managed to belittle him and treat him like he was four again. Just like she always had Robert Hamlet King.

"Focus, Gertrude, for once in your life! You're the family lawyer, how could you loose the store? Dad would never have lost the store! He always said that no one, not the bank, the government, or all the greedy corporations in the world would get this store over his…" His voice trailed off, but he wasn't sure if that was because he had just realized what he was going to say or if he was simply to strained to go on. He could feel the panic on the fringes of his consciousness and tears welling up in his eyes. Ignoring them both, he took a deep breath and a large swig of alcohol. _We'd better have something stronger than this around here. Vodka, I think_, _would be appropriate in this situation._ At least he could think clearly about something.

Gertrude stood, adopting an offended look. Since Hamlet was unsure of what he had just said to her, it was possibly one of the true genuine emotions this woman ever displayed. "I have been your family lawyer since you were a little boy! You don't think I knew how much he loved the store? I begged and begged him to sell it. The most sought after storefront in the city. Everyone wanted that space, from McDonalds to Kay Jewelers, to passing hobos on the street! The commission I would have made…" She ran her hands through her curls, like just thinking about the money Robbie's signature would have meant caused her great mental distress.

"That store was everything to my family! My great Grandfather opened it when this city was just a village! This is a nightmare. You couldn't have taken a loan out on the house or something to pay the bank bills? Is there still time to get it back? Have they foreclosed yet?" He started pacing, the panic creeping closer as the guests were edging farther away. Though, of course, they would never leave. This was the real reason everyone came to a funeral – to hear everything that would never be said during life. "Maybe, if I go to the bank, pay them back, they'll let us have it before they auction it off. If I just tell them what happened, that Dad was sick and couldn't have paid…."

Curls bounced as Gertrude shook her head and gave him an odd look. "The bank didn't reposes, silly. There was an offer, and acting as the proprietor of Mr. Kings affairs while he was…incapacitated, I had the power of attorney."

"WHAT? You sold it? You heartless witch, how could you!" Hamlet had stopped pacing and was now screaming at the top of his lungs. It was likely his father could hear him in the afterlife. Hamlet rather thought he would have approved. Thinking fast, he retaliated, "You couldn't have done anything without his signature, so the transaction wasn't legal and binding."

"After the attack, your father was out of it for several hours, but he was lucid long enough to sign some papers –" She saw his skeptical look " – with a signature that would pass any test, I might add."

He could hardly breathe, and was completely unsure of what to say. He wanted to scream at her – were words necessary for that? Or could he just rage like a rabid bear until someone mercifully put him down? That casket did look soft. Some distant part of his brain wondered why coffin-makers bothered to make them that way, as if the dead would care. The rest of him continued to hyperventilate. Nothing came out even though his lips moved for a moment. Finally, his voice cracked as he managed to force out a simple, "You're LYING!"

"No. You think I wanted to be dragged down with this family? So many times he could have sold, and we'd all be rolling in it! But him and his damn _principles,_" the last word came out mocking. "And when we had all those problems and lost all that business, I told him that if he sold then we could still come out ahead! Then the mess would be someone else's to deal with! But noooo, he wanted to make sure he took us all down with that stupid store. When the heart attack came we were swimming in red. He ended up drowning in it! So I…jumped ship, so to speak." Smugness permeated her voice, as if she was proud of herself for being so clever with her metaphor. Hamlet processed this information slowly as his brain struggled for oxygen. Gertrude pulled a tube from her clutch and re-applied her impeccable lipstick as Hamlet seemed to shut down. He wondered if she always wore red to hide the stains of blood she sucked out of people, or if that was merely ironic.

Finally, his brain seemed to catch up with her words. He was calm, probably because his blood had turned to ice as the full extent of her betrayal was coming to light. With deathly seriousness, he spoke calmly and slowly – making sure that he could keep himself under control for her answer. "What do you mean, jumped ship?"

She finished applying her lipstick before speaking. "I'm now the main advocate for Claudius's Kitchen, the restaurant chain. Claudius Nero was the one who made the, may I say, very generous offer on the King General Store, and offered me a position in his corporation." Her chocolate skin glowed with pride as she continued. "He said that anyone who could make the Kings sell had a gift. I told him it had been hard, but I was glad I had stuck with the family so long or I wouldn't have been able to. And you can bet I had some very lucrative job offers over the years. You should be thankful for my loyalty."

More than once he had sat through one of Gertrude's long winded speeches as she veered more and more off course from her original topic, but never before had he been so thankful for them. Her occupation of the silence for several minutes gave him a chance to stand there – stony and unmovable – and push the restart button on his brain. He had just booted up, however, when she mentioned her loyalty to the family. Anger boiled up inside him and as he opened his mouth, the same distant part of him that had wondered about funeral caskets now wondered whether he would explode or not.

Surprisingly, his voice came out very calm. Had she been more intelligent, Gertrude might have realized this was words, that there was lava just beneath the ice of his words. But Gertrude was completely self-centered; there was no way she would ever focus her attention on anyone else. "Please have all the files you have on my father or my family delivered here in the morning, as well as details of the transaction. I'll have some papers for you to sign and verify."

"Why?" She asked, surprise in her tone. "I'm not you're lawyer anymore."

"Obviously," he said coldly. "The papers are for your termination." Silence ensued. Gertrude had the decency to look abashed. Hamlet was conscious of the stunned guests who looked like fish with their staring eyes and gaping mouths at the corners of his awareness. He turned away from the crowd and back toward the casket. Gertrude left as Hamlet poured himself a Vodka tonic.

* * *

><p>That was what left him standing here, in front of the remains of his family business. It was more than that, really. It was a collective work of art, each generation able to add his own element and keep the heart of the business intact. Hamlet had always hoped to add is own element. When he was a kid, it had been a water fountain that spouted fruit-punch and a never ending bowl of ice-cream. Now that he was older, though, he had wanted to make this place better. Less shabby and run down, but with the same brick façade and old fashioned cash register. It was hard coming to terms with the fact that it would never happen, because some guy had decided he wanted to sell crappy chicken on Main Street instead of 3rd.<p>

In the middle of his mental battle between leaving and throwing rocks at the new windows, his stomach growled at him. Having only consumed alcohol and a frozen dinner the day before, the smell wafting Claudius's Kitchen was as appealing to his stomach as it was revolting to his brain. Hamlet decided now was a good time to get out of there. Trying not to run despite his overwhelming desire to never see this place again, he managed to get into his car and drive out of there. He forgot to signal and almost crashed, but didn't much care. Once situated at a red light, Hamlet pressed the Bluetooth button, and listened impatiently as a mechanical voice listed out his options.

"Call." He waited a few more seconds as she asked for a name. "Horatio."

"Dialing _Horatio._" The ring of the phone was surround sound, and extremely irritating. The light turned green before he could reach for an aspirin out of the glove compartment

"Hello?"

"Hey, buddy. It's Hamlet. I'm back in town for th- I'm back in town. Want to have lunch?" He found he still couldn't say it out loud. It was hard to hear people talking about it, let alone say anything himself. A brief silence followed. It was amazing how understanding and pity could be carried in sound waves across all that space in such a short time.

"Yeah. Uh, I get off in half an hour. Go ahead and get us a seat at Elsinore, and I'll meet you there." His voice was subdued, like he was still at work and not supposed to be talking. Normally Horatio would have his phone completely off (he was a stickler for rules). In his state of mind it hadn't occurred to Hamlet that the call would most likely not have been answered under normal circumstances, and he wondered if Horatio had been expecting it.

"Sounds good. I'll see you soon." He reached for the Bluetooth button again to end the call, but Horatio cut, leaving Hamlet's hand inches away.

"Oh, and Hamlet?" A pause.

"Yeah?"

"A table, please."

Hamlet swallowed. "Sure thing." Then he hung up. It was amazing how with three little words, Horatio was able to navigate a minefield and still get to the heart of what he wanted to say. He seemed to know that Hamlet had done nothing but crawl into a bottle, and was asking him not to do so by insisting on a table – not a bar seat – for what was supposed to be just a casual lunch. With such wonderful diplomacy, Hamlet always wondered why his friend had not gone into politics. But then he was too good hearted for that. A ten minute drive and another ten eaten up but parking and waiting found him the recipient of a buzzer. He was clutching it like it was his lifeline; if he held on tightly enough he wouldn't be bothered by his whole world turning upside down.

What was he supposed to do now? There was nothing left of his family, the business was gone, he wasn't sure he even wanted to look at the financials. Was he just supposed to drive back to college and try and get back the scholarship? They would take him back if he just explained the circumstances. From one way of seeing it, he was free from all obligations except the house. He cared little for the house, because there was a difference between a house and a home. The store had been a home. He would have gladly given up their town house for the dingy store. And yet, now that the store was gone and everything torn out, he still felt a pull towards the city where he was born and raised. His family had lived generations here.

He jumped as an unfamiliar buzzing ran through his hand, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he had been squeezing so hard the timer's vibrations had been amplified. Hamlet forced himself to loosen his death grip and flex his hand as he was lead to his seat by a waiter.

"Hi, I'm Francisco, and I'll be your server today. Can I start you off with anything?" The man had a gruff voice that made him sound like he should have been in the army. "We have an excellent selection of wines this week, if you're interested?"

Hamlet didn't look him in the eye. "Water, please," he muttered. "And I'm expecting someone else, so could you bring an extra menu?" The waiter left, and Hamlet was left alone with his thought, dark and dreary as they were. It was lucky Horatio showed up soon, or he would have been forced to take the waiter up on his appealing offer. "Horatio," he said with relief.

"Hamlet." They embraced, and took a seat once more. The waiter took his drink order and then disappeared once more. "It's good to see you. How have you been?" Their conversation for several minutes was mundane, with the usual undertones of meaning that followed an event that no one wanted to talk about. Finally, it was Horatio who broke the stalemate – as Hamlet had known he would.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have been there. I couldn't get off work. Their going to let me go soon as it is."

"I would have asked Dad to give you a job," he said bitterly, looking into his glass and wishing it was something stronger. Then maybe he would have an excuse to be moody and depressed.

"Look, I'm just going to come right out and say it. You need to hear it." This captured Hamlet's interest enough for him to actually look Horatio in the eye.

"This isn't going to be some speech about life, is it?"

"No, not that you don't need one. Just shut up and listen. I know what caused your father's heart attack," he said quietly.

Hamlet was afraid of the seriousness in Horatio's voice. "He lost a lot a business, and the store was going in debt..." His voice had gone child-like: unwilling to leave the safe-haven of mundane truth and enter into a world of deceit and shades of gray.

"And what do you think made him loose a lot of business? He had the best location in the city, excellent customer service, decent products and prices far too cheap to be profitable." He paused, like a teacher trying to will a student to the right answer, and gave him an expectant look. Hamlet just sunk lower into his booth. "Did you ever talk to your dad? Honestly, Hamlet, did you know nothing that was going on around here?"

Hamlet flinched, and Horatio looked a little ashamed. But not ashamed enough to drop the issue. "He wasn't to thrilled that King General was my fallback if basketball didn't pan out," Hamlet mumbled into his drink.

"Well, here's the scoop: a couple of weeks ago, the septic tank under the store ruptured. Sewage everywhere, pipes bursting – it was a mess. It was a miracle there was enough money in the world to keep the building from being condemned. You know those pipes have been there since, what, 1914?" He laughed through his nose, and shook his head at Mr. King's folly. Hamlet knew he meant no offence. He would have done the same thing if it hadn't been in conjunction with the two things he had just lost. "Well according to rumor, it wasn't the age of the pipes that caused the problem, though I heard that the plumber marveled they had lasted this long." He looked sideways at Hamlet. "Have you ever heard of a product called Slush Lightning Powder?"

"No. What is it?"

"A diatomic philasillacate ….." Hamlet gave him a blank stare. "In English – Jello."

"Jello?" Whatever he had been expecting, squishy dessert made from bone marrow was not it. "What the hell does Jello have to do with this?"

"Well, basically Jello. The plumber said it was the strangest thing. Instead of all the usual bodily fluids you would expect to explode out of a septic tank, there were basically huge chunks of gelatinized fluids, and that gummed up all the pipes. He said the closest thing they'd ever seen was used to turn all the fluids into a gelatin so that they could work on toilets."

Hamlet felt that this was an extremely bizarre thing – it felt completely random and inconsequential. But he wasn't stupid. Horatio was obviously telling him this for a reason. "So you think that the store was sabotaged?"

"Your father did."

"For what? Why? It doesn't make any sense."

"It does if you have the money to clean up the mess and buy out the store."

"Who wo- oh." Hamlet's sluggish brain was finally putting the pieces together. He would have expected anger to boil up inside him again, like it had when he had learned of Gertrude's shameless betrayal. Instead he just felt more drained, more oppressed, and more hopeless. "I need a drink." A waiter passed, and the request taken. Hamlet was able to avoid Horatio's raised eyebrows, since his friend chose not to comment. Once he had a glass in his hand he felt better; more willing to talk about this, not that there was much more to say.

Horatio continued his campaign to help. "Look, you need to pull yourself together. I'm not going t tell you what to do here, but I do know that you need to make sure you've still got a future, no matter what it's in. But I know you, and I know your going to want to do something about this. Just remember, there's no proof. This is all just rumor and inference."

"Dad wouldn't have let that stop him," Hamlet answered dejectedly. "He would have considered it the highest dishonor to let something like this go."

Horatio stood, and looked down at Hamlet. "I've got to go, but think about what I said. And remember, you've got a choice. No one can tell you what to do." He picked up Hamlet's glass, took a small sip, and dumped the rest into the near-by plant. "Stop drinking." He patted Hamlet's shoulder before walking way.

Hamlet's mind was working quickly now, despite the alcohol. Could Horatio's information be trusted? Who was his inside man? Or was most of this common knowledge? He wondered why Gertrude hadn't done anything legal if it was his father's belief that he was sabotaged. _Duh, Hamlet: Because she was a sneaky, underhand lawyer who just wanted to make a commission, that's why!_ All the same, he wouldn't feel right trying to act, or even know how to act, until he was sure of this information. Momentarily he considered just forgetting about this whole thing and going back to the scholarship committee, and begging. Then the image of his father crossed his mind's eye. Hard face, strong chin – determined features. His father had championed causes far less serious than this. Besides; this could just be the legal issue that Hamlet needed to get the store back.

It was that hope, more than anything, that made him lean over the booth and call to the opposite of the restaurant, "Horatio?"

The man in question turned around and called back, "Yeah?"

"Your buddy Gonzago – he's an actor, right?" A plan was forming in Hamlet's brain.

* * *

><p>Alone in the house, surrounded by stacks of legal boxes and file folders that a very irritating Gertrude had dropped off, Hamlet pushed play on his laptop. This was the file the Gonzago had sent him from his phone. This was more than he had been paid to do, and Hamlet made a mental note to tip him for recording it instead of just recounting the tale.<p>

The camera was shaky, and an odd angle that revealed the actor wore loafers told Hamlet the door was being opened. The office had hardwood floors, giving him the impression that it was expensive. But then, the main office of a chain restaurant would be. They made a lot of money, by Hamlet's calculation. The camera tiled upward slightly, and between Gonzago's fingers he could see half of what was probably a secretary. In a scratchy, distant voice that was probably due to the camera's quality, Gonzago had an argument with the woman about –from what he could make out – was an acceptable excuse to see Mr. Nero, the very busy owner of Claudius' Kitchen. Eventually, the woman got so frustrated she let him in just to get the annoying plumber out of her polished lobby. Hamlet wondered if this guy's acting was that good, or it was just luck. Or perhaps the crisp crunching that overwhelmed all other noise was the sound of a twenty being crinkled as it passed by the microphone and onto the desk. As soon as Mr. Nero's face came into sight, however, Hamlet stopped caring.

Claudius Nero was a pudgy man, with tufts of bleach bottle white hair on his head. He was dressed corporate casual, and had glasses that made his eyes look smaller, rather than larger. It was odd to look at this man (especially from that angle), and know that he may have directly caused his father's death. Hamlet wasn't sure what the proper response was. He had anger – plenty of that. But it was like his emotions were frozen, waiting along with Hamlet for confirmation or denial of the rumors before he could feel anything.

"Sorry to interrupt, _signor_, I have come to ask your permission to test the septic tank and your pipes," Gonzago used a fake but real-sounding Hispanic accent. Hamlet felt this was a nice touch, and saw no suspicion play across the badly rendered image of Claudius Nero. "There have been some problems with nearby septic tanks and we are checking to make sure other properties have not been contaminated by the chemicals." If Hamlet wasn't trying to analyze the emotions that played across the man's face, he would have looked for a zoom in button. As it was, he couldn't be bothered to interrupt the video. First was shock, definitely shock. Was that shock that he might have accidentally ruined more than just my father? Or simply concern for his building's safety? Next a red tinge crept over his face – a blush of guilt or high blood pressure? Hamlet was agonizing over this. Was this man guilty or not? From the way he stared down at the table for a moment, Hamlet was leaning towards guilty. But he wanted to be sure that his own hate of the man wasn't biasing him.

"_Signor?_" Gonzago asked again, pulling Claudius from whatever reverie he was in.

"What? No! Get out! I'll hire my own plumber, thank you, not some illegal who comes in begging for work off the street!" His face grew wider in anger, and he seemed to have the urge to hit Gonzago, as if that might relieve his panic. The fear and anger in his eyes was what convinced Hamlet. "Nancy! I told you I wanted no visitors today! Why did you let him in? That's the last time I hire college kids!" The camera shook and moved as Gonzago hurried out, disorienting Hamlet. Or maybe he was just blind with anger. Gonzago's face appeared on the screen, his voice too loud next to the microphone. He started to speak, but Hamlet shut the laptop with far more force than necessary, cutting off the sound.

He roared. There was no other explanation for the burst of raw emotion coming from Hamlet King's mouth. It probably sent some of the neighbors running to their phones, reporting a disturbance, but he couldn't find the will to care. This man had taken everything from him! There had to be retribution! If Hamlet had anything to do with it (and he guaranteed he would) Claudius Nero would rot in jail for the rest of his life! However, after breaking a lamp and punching near-by walls, his energy lost steam and he was able to drop onto the sofa and think clearly. His eyes welled with tears, and his embarrassment was only soothed by the fact that they were tears of frustration, not weakness. Because now that he was sitting down, he remembered clearly what Horatio had said. There was no proof – nothing that wasn't admissible in court. Gertrude, despite all her flaws, was an excellent lawyer. There was nothing that could be done.

Besides, Hamlet would never be content with a prison sentence, if screwing up someone's plumbing warranted more than just a fine he would be surprised. He would pay up and then be left to sit on the throne of the King General store for the rest of his life, gloating over the victory and being horrible to his secretaries. No, Hamlet wanted to tear down the man _and _the company, brick by brick. He wanted there to be nothing left for this man to live for, and then be forced to live anyway. That's how Hamlet felt.

* * *

><p>The next few days were occupied by Hamlet drinking. His dad had never much cared for alcohol, but that didn't mean there wasn't a liquor cabinet in the house. Gertrude had kept it well stocked. Hamlet took it upon himself to empty it. He only had vague memories of what he had done, but he was pretty sure he had done something stupid and reckless. He knew he had somehow managed to find a number online, type it into his phone, and have a very long conversation with the recipient's answering machine. He wasn't lucid enough to care who it had been. He had nothing left, no scholarship, no job – just the money that had come from the sale and whatever dad had left him. Most of it had gone into re-paying debts and paying bills. He only had one friend now: the bottle.<p>

Well, two, actually. When he crawled into a bottle and didn't resurface, Horatio intervened. Hamlet woke up in the shower with the water turned straight to cold, blasting as hard as possible. He was still in his clothes, which immediately became leaden with water. That was okay, because it seemed to difficult a task to move. "The cold isn't going to get you up?" That voice sounded familiar, but there was no way his foggy brain would allow him to place it. "Maybe the hot will." And just like that, an arm came into his unfocused vision and turned the tap. Pinpricks of ice-cold turned into a wonderful sensation of heat, warming up his frozen limbs and bringing feeling back into his body. Then it got hot, burning even, and Hamlet struggled to get up and away from the blister-causing droplets. Apparently Horatio had no sympathy.

"You idiot! You practically drank yourself into a coma! But I expected that. I said 'Horatio, give him a little leeway. His dad just died,' but then you go and take it far beyond what I thought was even remotely sane. You give them an inch, and they take a mile! Do I need to put you in the program? Because I'm seriously considering it. How could you be so stupid!"

Hamlet was still disoriented and confused. "Wha…What'd I do?"

"What did you do? You drunk dialed Claudius Nero! God knows what you said, but something cause him to call me! Gertrude gave him my number, and he actually called me! While I was at work I might add. I expected a call from the cops, but not – this is insane! Get up, I'm getting you sober, you plastered idiot."

It was several minutes after Horatio had stood him up, dried him off and given him new clothes before his brain could focus enough to ask, "What'd he say?"

Horatio seemed calmer now – resigned to his friend's inevitable folly. "Told me that you had called him, in the grips of what seemed like a bad spell. It was obviously a diplomatic way of telling be you were hammered. He said he was 'concerned about Hamlet's welfare' and said you might need looking after. As if I wasn't going to check in on you anyway," Horatio sounded angry again, like he was mad this guy was telling him how to handle his best friend. "He'd heard about your father –obviously, since that no good rat caused his heart attack and used it for a profit- and wanted to help you get back on your feet. He's made some generous donations to many colleges, and has influence. He got you back in the run for the scholarship."

"Wait – what? I'm taking charity from the man who took everything from me?" Hamlet was quite impressed he managed to formulate a whole sentence. In his state, it seemed a difficult feat.

"Oh shut up Hamlet. You have nothing right now. Nothing! Don't tell me you want to pass this up? I don't care if this guy is as slimy as an eel and crooked as a politician. You need this, King." Horatio would hear no discussion on the subject, and that one sentence seemed to be about all he could manage to get in before he started puking out his guts.

The scholarship committee had been trying to get a hold of him, and Horatio sobered him up so that he could go back and play. "It's time you pulled yourself together. You don't have the luxury of hiding inside a bottle. You have responsibilities – if not to yourself, than to your father's memory!"

"Dad wanted me to run the store, and n-now I can't," Hamlet slurred.

"You didn't want to anyway! You wanted to play basketball. So get up, get sober, on go play basketball." He had another appointment the next day, so Horatio had his two friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; drive him back to the college so he could sober up. Horatio made them promise they would get him there on time, dump gallons of coffee into him, and not let him touch a bottle or a steering wheel. Then he gave them Hamlet's credit card to pay for gas, and sent them on their way.

* * *

><p>When, two days later, Hamlet showed up at Elsinore to interrupt Horatio's date with his girlfriend, it was fair to say that Horatio was shocked and angry. At first he suspected Hamlet to be drunk again, and that was why he wasn't using his last shot at the scholarship. But Hamlet hadn't touched a bottle in two days. He was just angry – so angry he had been unable to think clearly, never mind play. Horatio asked his girlfriend if they could reschedule, and Hamlet usurped her place.<p>

Horatio looked at Hamlet. "So, what are you going to do now? Get a job?" He seemed to accept that whatever Hamlet was going to do, there was nothing he could do to change that.

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do, and it has nothing to do with planning for my future." Hamlet pulled out his phone, and went into his contacts. In his haste he passed the N's, and had to scroll back up in order to jab _Claudius Nero_ with his thumb.

"Claudius's Kitchen Headquaters, how may I help you?

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Nero."

"Name please?"

"Hamlet King."

"One moment please." Music played as the lady put him on hold. He didn't have time to wonder if this was the same secretary, Nancy, that he had seen on the video, because Horatio was suddenly looking furious.

"Are you crazy?" He asked wildly, almost knocking over a glass in his frustration. "I don't want you getting involved with this guy!"

"You're not my father!" Hamlet shot back.

"Someone has to be! You know what this guy did to your store! To your father!"

"You're the one who wanted me to take the scholarship from him!"

"Because you need it! But now that you've thrown that down the drain, you should just forget about this guy and –" Horatio was interrupted when a deep voice with a slight twang sounded over the phone.

"Hello? Hamlet?"

"Hello, Mr. Nero." Hamlet didn't have to make his voice cold. Ice formed in his very marrow when he'd heard that hated voice.

"Call me Claudius, son: everyone does. So, how'd the scholarship work out? Callin' to thank me? No need, son I –"

Hamlet cut him off. "I didn't take the scholarship."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear you didn't get in son. You could always try for a junior college." It was not lost on Hamlet that the man converted what was supposed to be a refusal to be bought or take charity into a personal failure of Hamlet's doing. "Well, why don't you stop by the company picnic tomorrow? I'm throwing a little shindig to celebrate the new store opening up. It's only a few blocks from where your old man's store used to be. You can bring your friend, Horay."

"Horatio, sir, and I'd rather not go," Horatio cut in, grabbing the phone from Hamlet. " In fact, I think we're both very busy tomorrow…"

"Oh, come now, boy. We'll have food and games. Hamlet can see Gertrude – from all she's told me she was practically raised him in his father's stead."

Horatio flushed at the implication that, one, Gertrude cared even the slightest bit about Hamlet, and, two, that Mr. King had been lax in his duties as a father. The fact that it was partially true didn't make it any less disrespectful of the dead or hurtful to Hamlet. "No, thank you.

"Tell you what, you both stop by and we can make a little wager. Old time business against new age industry. I know the late Mr. King was always raving about the 'good old days' – maybe Hamlet can act in his stead. How about a healthy one-on-one game?"

"No, thank you, sir. Again we really appric-"

Hamlet grabbed the phone from an unsuspecting Horatio. "We'll be there," and he hung up.

* * *

><p>The next day was sunny. Had his life been a movie or some other form of fiction, this general would have indicated to Hamlet that he was about to have a marvelous day cut into a montage and set to an up-beat pop song. However, he knew this would not be a pleasant day. It was the day of the picnic. As he and a reluctant Horatio stepped out of the car, the grass looked plush and the picture of kids on the playground was idyllic. He braced himself, and headed towards the picnic tables.<p>

Horatio looked nervous. "Maybe they canceled it. Or maybe we're in the wrong place." Hamlet looked wonderingly at his friend. Why was he so jumpy when Hamlet felt so determined? Wasn't Horatio always the one who knew what was right and what to do? When had Hamlet become the one in charge, and not Horatio? Hamlet chose not to comment, but simply pointed to one of the larger eating area's; a banner spelled out in huge red letters, "Claudius's Kitchen Company Picnic!" They were obviously in the right place.

Claudius greeted them happily. It was weird for Hamlet to be treated like a friend by one whom he hated so much. They made small talk – well, Horatio did. Hamlet was stony silent. They ate, chatted, and just generally waited for the only reason they were there: to get revenge on Claudius. It was also unusual that the man showed no outward signs of being capable of great wrong-doing. Hamlet had always been taught by movies, teachers and books that there was always a clear villain and a clear hero. Good and Evil. Black and White. What if he was color blind?

There was no time for doubts now. Claudius announced that it was time for the games to begin. "Young Hamlet and I will be playing a game of basketball, one-on-one. He recently lost his basketball scholarship, so I would imagine he needs the win! Let us hope he can beat an old bachelor like me!" His announcement was to the whole group, and spoken with a nasty sneer. Hamlet's vision went red with anger. _Yeah, definitely not color-blind. _

The game started off badly. Everyone was cheering for Claudius, and Gertrude's voice kept rising above the rest, reminding him of her betrayal. All the terrible things she'd ever said about him, every time she'd belittled him or his father and everything she'd said at the funeral kept tearing at his brain, dulling his reflexes and ruining his concentration. Then there was the fact that with every point his enemy scored, the crowd grew rowdier and Hamlet got angrier. Factor in all the smack Claudius was talking, and Hamlet was practically blind with rage. His whole body screamed with it, and if he managed to get the ball for a moment he would simply chuck it at the backboard instead of shooting. The sound it made when the ball collided with the board was the only thing keeping Hamlet in control right now. That was, until the ball would bounce right into Claudius's hands and he'd score three more points.

The breaking point for Hamlet came about halfway through the game. The score was 18-3, and Claudius was just basking in the younger man's humiliation. "No wonder you didn't get the scholarship, son. You suck at basketball the way your pops sucked at business!" The laughs turned to gasps when Hamlet threw down the ball and wrapped his hands around the older man's neck.

The bad thing about attacking a man over a foot taller than Hamlet was that once the element of surprise was gone, he got a good punch in the face. The first one broke his nose. The next few, well, they broke his face. Finally Hamlet was able to get a fist in edgewise and knocked Mr. Nero down to the ground. The man flailed, but as soon as he hit the court he tripped Hamlet and rolled over to sit on top of him and beat the life out of the kid. The crowd was making gasps and moans along with each blow, and all had their phone's out – some kind souls calling the cops, most simply video taping an old man kicking the crap out of a kid.

Horatio ran out and tried to break up the fight. Claudius got up off of Hamlet, and offered him his hand. Hamlet, disoriented and covered in blood, stood and swayed.

"You okay son? I s'pose I got a little carried away there. I'm sure you're fine."

"Doh," Hamlet muttered. He wasn't fine at all. Mr. Claudius was dusting him off. "'Ou killed ma 'ad!"

"Now, who would believe a silly thing like that son?"

"A juhry…"

"Uh, uh." Mr. Claudius finished dusting off Hamlet, and everyone relaxed like the fight was over. Then, with out warning, his fist pulled back in a clean upper cut to Hamlet's jaw. Immediately, Hamlet dropped and Claudius started kicking him, screaming, "You no good kid! You couldn't mind your own business! If your dad had been smart, he could have sold when I first asked! But no matter how much money I offered, the threats I made, he wouldn't sell! It's not my fault he was so weak his heart couldn't take a little healthy. Compe-tition!" With each final word, a single, bone-shattering kick was aimed at Hamlet, and all vision went dark.

* * *

><p>Hamlet never woke up. The police came and restrained Claudius. He was given a life sentence, with the chance for parole in twenty. He wouldn't have had much to come out to, though. Gertrude took a deal in which she provided all the information regarding the illegal transaction and the sabotage in exchange for an eighteen-month sentence and disbarment from all legal professions. Horatio buried Hamlet next to his father, and wrote a book about Hamlet's life. The movie rights sold at just under six million, with the sole condition that a Mr. Gonzago Cole would have a starring role. Horatio used the money to buy out Claudius Kitchen (no great feat, since the stock bottomed out after the CEO's life sentence and the viral video of the murder) and open up a chain of King General Store's.<p> 


End file.
